Royalty
by eyepatchesandpipes
Summary: She doesn't notice it happening, but one face keeps cropping up in her notebook. A prompt from Siddymouche on tumblr. "Irisa drawing Stahma".


They had been in Defiance for a few weeks now and Irisa wasn't feeling any more comfortable. She didn't like the hustle and bustle of cities as a general rule… or towns… or villages. Essentially if an area had a population over 50, Irisa would not be particularly fond of it. Almost as far back as she could remember it had been just her and her adoptive father, roaming the Badlands and scavenging what they could. It made them resourceful. They were tougher, faster, and better than other people. They could survive where some wouldn't dare to tread. They were better than people who stayed in the cities, living their comfortable lives and acting as though everyone could live in harmony.

Irisa was an Irathient and Irisa knew better. She knew that it would never last and eventually they would leave, just as she wanted. She knew that Irathients always get what they want.

However Nolan seemed determined to attempt to integrate them into this new melting pot of cultures. Between his complicated and somewhat antagonistic relationship with the mayor and his far more simplistic, expensive relationship with the mayor's sister, Irisa was being left to fend for herself. If this was the Badlands she would tackle issues with ease, confident in her abilities to take care of herself. Unfortunately for her this wasn't the Badlands and Irisa was left with very few options as 'punch it until it goes away' seemed to be socially unacceptable. She learnt this after a (second, then third) night spent at the jail. So she reached the obvious conclusion; don't switch to 'punch it until it goes away but don't get caught' because Jeb will get angry. Instead, watch and learn.

This is what led Irisa to sitting with her notebook and pencil, sketching people off the street as they went about their daily lives. She did this for hours, small images cluttering the pages. She drew children playing together and people drinking. She went to the markets and observed vendors arguing with customers over the price of fruit. Faces of people she didn't know filled the pages but it was only on review that she noticed one image appearing far more often than the others.

A Castithan woman, beautiful by her species' standards with her long white hair and impossibly pale skin encased in small lace gloves and a hooded robe. She was often drawn on the arm of a man, or walking through the streets and the markets, or interacting with children. Irisa was surprised that she had drawn this woman so often, not consciously making the decision to focus on her.

After a sleepless night examining every sketch line, the next day she does focus.

Irisa sat on a wall with her pencil hovering above the page, ready to draw the moment that she saw this woman again. When she finally laid eyes on the Castithan's features her hand brushed against the paper but she made no move to draw. Instead Irisa sat and watched, soaking in the beauty and gracefulness that surrounded the woman with her every movement. Irisa was sure that the woman could pass for royalty, which was an idea that solidified in Irisa's mind when the violet eyes of the woman locked on to her. The Castithan's head tilted slightly to the side as though Irisa was a curiosity she wished to examine more closely. Irisa nearly shuddered at the thought. Violet eyes raked over Irisa's form and she watched as they lit up with the sighting of an opportunity.

Irisa was no fool. She knew when someone was trying to manipulate her and the look that this Castithan got in her eyes was dangerous. It wasn't the look she had seen crossing features of weak men and women before, it was the look of experience. The Castithan that Irisa had become enamoured with was dangerous. She had played the game, was an expert at it, had made people her puppets in the same way the human royals of the past were wont to do. She was a queen and she knew how to twist her subjects around her little finger.

Irisa had felt as though she and the Castithan had stared at each other for hours, forming a connection that took root within her chest and spread out to suffuse her body with a strange warmth. However it had, in reality, been but a few seconds before the Castithan's attention had been drawn away.

"Stahma?"

Irisa now focused on the man addressing the Castithan, Stahma. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of his face – Datak Tarr. She watched as Stahma took his arm and allowed him to lead her away before Irisa glanced down at what she assumed would be a blank page. Instead she found a rough sketch of Stahma's face, her head tilted to the side and a small smile tugging at the edge of her lips. But those eyes, eyes Irisa was sure she could lose herself in if she so wished.

Gazing at the drawing Irisa felt a smirk of her own adorning her face. This woman was the wife of Datak Tarr, the king of the crime world in Defiance. Stahma was his queen. They were tough, living in a world where few would dare to tread; the city's equivalent of the Badlands. Not only did they demand respect, but they earned it. Stahma was dangerous, Stahma was respected, and Stahma was off-limits. Stahma was everything that Irisa wanted.

Besides, as Irisa knew, Irathients always get what they want.

_**A/N: **_**For Siddymouche! She prompted me on tumblr with 'Irisa drawing Stahma'.**


End file.
